Page 44 of Death of a Grill Master

“He had the motive,” Hayley murmured. “Hank humiliated him professionally. Kylie rejected him romantically. And now Chase is in the crosshairs.”

“Plus, Zane’s a diver. Knows the waters. Knows how to approach a boat without being noticed.”

Hayley nodded slowly, gears turning. “It’s just a theory. But it’s starting to make sense.”

Chelsea refilled her drink. “You know what they say. Once you eliminate the impossible …”

Hayley raised a brow. “You’ve been reading Bruce’s column again.”

“I skim,” Chelsea said, grinning. “Now, finish your drink. You’re gonna need the fuel.”

Hayley glanced toward the front door, half-hoping Randy might appear with a box of mementos from their childhood. But the bar remained quiet, save for the snoring regular at the end and the clink of Chelsea’s shaker behind the counter.

She took a slow sip of her daiquiri. Her mind swirled with suspects, motives, timelines. Doug. Kylie. Zane. The list was not shrinking, and the answers weren’t coming any faster.

Somewhere out there, someone knew the truth.

Chapter 16

The dive shop smelled like neoprene and dried salt, a distinct combination of ocean adventure and mildew. Hayley stepped inside, removing her sunglasses as her eyes adjusted from the bright afternoon sun to the dim, cool interior. The only other customer in the shop was a lanky college kid trying to squeeze his size-thirteen feet into fins clearly meant for someone much daintier. He grunted and wobbled, almost knocking over a display of snorkel masks.

Hayley gave him a sympathetic smile and moved farther into the shop. Wet suits hung in rows like deflated bodies, dive logs and waivers scattered across the counter in plastic bins. Behind the glass case up front, there were waterproof cameras, knives, and a display of oddly expensive defogging spray.

She slid behind the counter quickly while no one was looking and scanned the dive logs. Sure enough, under the entries for the night of the fireworks, two tanks and one wet suit had been marked “loaned out.”

No customer name.

Just a scrawled note: returned late.

Her pulse quickened.

From around the side of the building, Hayley heard the hiss of an outdoor shower shutting off, and a moment later, Zane strolled in shirtless, hair wet and slicked back, water glistening down his tanned chest. He spotted her immediately.

“Well, well,” he said with a grin. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Come to sign up for that dive lesson I keep offering?”

“I was actually thinking about snorkeling,” Hayley said breezily, pretending to examine a coral identification chart. “You know, something a little more … casual.”

Zane stepped behind the counter and reached for a towel, rubbing it over his shoulders. “Snorkeling’s for tourists. You want the real experience, you strap on a tank.”

She raised a brow. “You offering me the full treatment?”

“Absolutely. First lesson’s on the house. I already told you that.” He gestured to a clipboard. “I’ve got a little time this afternoon. Let’s get you signed in.”

Hayley hesitated. “Is there a liability waiver involved?”

He gave her a bemused look. “Of course. This is Bar Harbor, not international waters. I gotta protect myself from lawsuits and overconfident townies.”

She laughed but didn’t miss the flicker in his eyes. “So, what’s your policy on returning gear? Let’s say, for example, someone borrowed a couple tanks on fireworks night. Would they’ve needed to log it?”

Zane’s smile faded. “Peeking at my dive logs? You’re not really here for snorkeling, are you?”

“Curious minds,” she said. “Your logs show two tanks and a wet suit checked out that night. You said you weren’t diving. So …?”

“I wasn’t using them. Returned late.”

“By who?”

He leaned on the counter, his gaze hardening. “Look, Hayley. I like you. I do. But you’re not press. And you’re not police.”